


Non Timebo Mala: The Year Seven; the year Sam comes home without Pal

by roxymissrose



Series: Non Timebo Mala [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 03:47:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9639476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: Timestamp set after Sam defeats his demon.





	

Dean came up out of a deep, satisfying sleep, letting wakefulness steal up on him…he turned to his side and wormed his way a little deeper under the covers, content. Sam was home, and it filled every bit of Dean with warm satisfaction, knowing that all he had to do was yell, and Sam’d be there. 

On the heels of his warm flush of pleasure _Sam’s home!_ came the thought that this was Christmas morning, and he rolled to his back, smiled lazily up at the low, beamed ceiling. Christmas, and Sam was home, safe and sound and in one piece. 

As for presents, Dean had a few things for Sam that he'd managed to keep hidden from prying eyes. He was pretty sure Sam would like the knife he'd made for him during the summer, while Sam was off doing…Dean sighed…well, doing his job. His avocation. 

He was sure that Sam would find the knife Dean had crafted during the months he was gone to be a handy piece. Dean had done his best to make it a useful tool, a right smart mix of silver and steel, with a shaft made of ash—not Sam's beloved rosewood, but it had strong protective properties as well, and came off the Kane land, besides.

Not content with its natural protective qualities, Dean had worked some minor hearth spells into it—some he was sure Sam would appreciate—now, the knife could be located easily with a few spoken words and a scant handful of dust—any sort of powder would do, actually. On the mundane side, he'd managed a pair of deerskin gloves, a bar of fancy, from back-east chocolate, along with a packet of horehound, Sam's favorite. The man claimed that he relished them for their medicinal qualities, but Dean knew bullshit when he smelled it. That man had a monstrous sweet tooth and that was no joke. 

Speaking of Sam….

Dean came all the way awake, and noticed that not only was his Sam not in bed, his clothes were gone, and so were his boots. He lay there for a moment, blinking quickly, swallowing hard, before calming his racing heart. Of _course_ he knew there was no way Sam would leave again, so soon, and certainly not without a word…he slipped out of bed, a full-body shiver leaving him unsteady on his feet when they landed on the ice-cold floorboards. 

He slid his feet into the thick pair of wool socks waiting bed-side, and yanked the old trade blanket off the foot of the bed, tossed it around his shoulders, gripping the blanket tighter around his shoulders as he headed for the stairs. He was ready enough to stoke the fire and get coffee cooking, but he held out some hope that Sam was doing it, and not out in the barn soothing the grey colt who'd mysteriously taken the place of old Pal. That was a story Sam hadn't told yet, and by the twist of his jaw when Dean mentioned it, might be a story he'd never know—it hurt to not know where Pal had gone, and what story that ropey scar twisting around Sam's shoulder was telling. 

It was what it was—Dean was more than aware that there were a lot of stories dammed up in in his Hunter's head that he would never hear—but it was something he'd made his peace with years ago. If he wanted Sam to stay, then there were things he'd have to accept on faith. Sam was worth that to him, and more.

He shuffled towards the kitchen, but stopped in his tracks at a whiff of one of his most favorites scents—the smell of coffee brewing and ham frying. It had him grinning, feeling like he'd come up aces. And…he drew in another deep breath—smelled like corncakes coming on as well. Smelled like Sam had the makings of a fine Christmas breakfast going. He could hear Bonehead growling away, doing his version of begging for some ham gristle, or a piece of cake. Dean chuckled softly. The dog's begging was more a refined threat of violence than any kind of actual pleading on his part—like Master, like dog, Dean thought. 

He came closer, ready to sweet talk the man into fixing him a plate and filling his cup for him—and stumbled to a shocked stop.

Over in the corner, near the table Pa Tobe had built a lifetime ago, and in sight if the still-brand new sofa Dean had ordered two summers ago from the east, was a _tree._ In specific, a Christmas tree. A whole, crisp-smelling, live-and-shedding needles, Christmas tree. And next to it, Sam standing proud, a lop-sided grin curling that cupid's bow mouth of his, and at his feet, his flat-headed dog chewing on the lower branches with a contemplative look. 

"Well? What do you think, Blacksmith? Maybe make some clever little things to hang on it, some candles…" Sam wound down, took in Dean's incredulous look, and frowned, a brief flick pf expression over his face, gone before Dean could blink again. 

"You don’t like it," Sam said, his voice gone flat and cold, the dead tone of it dragging up unpleasant memories for Dean. "Don't worry, I can take it back out right quick. Hell, this was a stupid idea anyways. We're grown men after all. All this Christmas rigmarole is…it's foolishness for babies."

Dean could see the splash of red across Sam's cheeks and hated that Sam was flushing in embarrassment. Hated that he'd accidentally made Sam hurt. "Sam, _no—_ this is a fine tree, I'm just…well, it's been a long time since someone's done anything as nice as that for me—for Christmas." Dean smiled at him and hoped all the satisfied warmth, all the joy he felt at Sam being with him again was plain to see.

Sam huffed, but Dean could well see that the red that'd stained his cheeks had gone over from mortification to a faint blush of pleasure, and that made him happy. Sam pushed the dog away from chewing on the tree, sending him into his corner by the stove with a couple of amazingly vile curses, and a few kicks gone so wide, they were barely in Bonehead's vicinity. 

Sam sort of slinked his way back towards the tree. Sam licked his lips, and, hesitantly, said, "I did want to know what a Christmas was like…I've - I've seen pictures in some of Uncle Robert's magazines, the ones he gets in from Boston. I, um…I always wanted…to wake up to something that was mine alone, given by someone who cared…I guess you think I'm a fool. Bet Christmas is no stranger to you, Dean."

"My pa, we—" Dean stopped and blushed a bit, rubbed the back of his neck, before going on with a chuckle. "We never messed with a tree, y'know, never thought much about the trappin's—we just sat down to dinner, and passed our gifts over with our eggnog, more rum than egg, I'd say." 

Dean chuckled again at the memory of those first few glasses he'd sputtered over with his pa, way back when. He shuffled closer to Sam and snaked an arm out from under his blanket to loop around Sam's neck. 

"I've never had a proper Christmas with you, Sam, for one reason or another—shhh, I understand, I lay no blame on you, Hunter, you do what you were born to do," he said at Sam's shamefaced attempt to apologize—"but I really want to. I'd be more than happy to share one with you."

 _Hell, share all the rest of my Christmases with you—_ Dean shut that avenue of thought right down. Sam was a skittish kind of character and it wouldn’t take much to send him right out into the weather again…but it seemed Sam was pleased by the thought of sharing this one, at least. Sam ducked his head and did that little move, looking up from under his bangs at Dean, the way it made him look like he was just a little chap, made Dean want to roll him right up and put him in his back pocket for safe keeping. Never mind his Sam was a killer and probably the most dangerous thing in the entire county, never mind that the reason he was with Dean was pure choice on Sam's part and Sam had all the control. It pleased them both to pretend that wasn't so. 

Sam leaned down and rested his lips against Dean's, waiting for Dean to lead the kiss. It was something the man was still getting used to, this free expression of feeling, of care for another. Dean leaned into it gently, waiting for Sam to soften, licked gently along the crease of his lips until he opened. It went slowly at first, then Sam gave in to the need to get close, pushed his whole self against Dean—something Dean heartily approved of. 

"Well, now, traveler mine," he whispered against Sam's mouth, "we can finish up with this tree, or we can take the steps upstairs to our room and finish something else. If you wish."

Sam chuckled, "Why don’t you show me what you mean to finish, Blacksmith?" He backed towards the stairs, pulling gently at Dean's hand until he followed…which had been Dean's plan all along. He smiled at Sam and shook his head.

"You’re a piece of work, boy, a piece of work."

Sam laughed, dropped Dean's hand and dashed up the stairs. 

Dean stood on the first stair, grinning at Sam's back and marveling at the difference in the man—the playfulness he gave in to sometimes, and the ease with which he smiled now, the hint of softness around his eyes. It was a damn Christmas miracle, all right. Sam's voice came back down the stairs—while Dean had lost himself in reverie, Sam had disappeared up the stairs.

"Blacksmith, can't get more naked than I am now—you coming?"

Well, that was a pointed observation and Dean Kane was no fool. He leveled a glare at the bored looking dog swathed in his blankets by the stove. "Don’t be coming up those stairs, now, y'hear?"

Bonehead snorted, rolled so his ass faced Dean and farted grandly. 

Dean fought down a laugh, twitched the blanket higher around his shoulders—be a terrible shame to trip on the darn thing and break his neck—and hurried up to the loft. 

Sam was spread out on his bed—the new bed Dean had made - sturdy iron bars, wider than his childhood cot, in fact, big enough to accommodate a grown man and the keeper of his heart. His big hands swiped a path down his body, different now than when they'd first met. His ribs weren't poking out like they'd once done—more muscle layered over them, longer legs, bigger hands…his chin was sharper now, cheekbones too, dusted with a shadow of dark hair. No more going days without shaving. Dean smirked. Sam smirked back, his hand cradling his prick, foreskin tight behind the rosy head and a silvery trail of wet dangling from tip to his thigh. "C'mon, now, need you right here next to me." 

Dean dropped the blanket at the edge of the bed, and slid to his knees, edging his way over Sam, stopping when his knees were on either side of Sam's slim hips and the head of his prick was tapping against his stomach. 

"Fuck, boy, you sure are beautiful," Dean breathed, and winced internally. Calling his boy beautiful was guaranteed to bring that bitter waddy flashing to the fore. But…Christmas miracles. Sam just closed his eyes for a moment, and opened them again, clear, warm…"I know you think so, Dean Kane. Thank you." Sam reached up, cupped Dean's cheek. "If I never said it out loud before, I love you, Dean."

Dean's heart soared, his eyes tingled and he blinked, and bit his lip when he couldn't hold back a wayward tear or two; they splashed against Sam's bare chest. 

"Well, there ain't no need to go all girly on me, now," Sam said. He wiped the wet into his chest hair and grinned sideways at Dean, his exaggerated accent making the mocking affectionate. 

"Shut up, son, and put that sharp tongue to a better use."

"Umh-um. I got a better idea," Sam said. "Get here next to me and roll over." 

Dean laid himself out flat. Winced a bit and blushed hotly in to his pillow when Sam raised his hips and spread his legs. He felt Sam's fingers brushing over his hole and moaned, partwise in embarrassment, partwise in confused arousal. "What—Sam, what—"

"Shhh." Sam's warning shush blew hot over Dean's exposed center, he shuddered with the startling good feeling of it, and then, a rough, wet swipe between his cheeks right dead center over his hole made him yelp, stiffen—and then melt against the sheets when Sam licked him again. 

Sam let out a smug chuckle. "Uh-hum," he said. "Had a feeling you might like that."

Dean burned for a moment, hot with jealousy over whoever had taught his boy to do such an intimate thing…he made a conscious decision to force himself to relax, to take it and enjoy it. Whatever his dear traveler had done when he was away was of no consequence to Dean, had no bearing on their life. Sam then and Sam now were different people—he was going to believe that. 

When next Sam's tongue rubbed circles over his hole, Dean let any and all doubt go, moaned happily at the wet sensation, the feeling of Sam's tongue dancing over him, the tip twisting down inside him. Dean's hips danced as well, trying to force that tongue in deeper, keening at the feeling of Sam's wonderful, soaking-wet, open mouth kisses all over him, the way they forced him open. Deans hips jerked into the mattress when Sam's mouth tightened on him and _sucked_ \--his teeth grazed gently over the now swollen hole, the faintest pinpricks of pain intensifying the heat, the throbbing feeling of _oh god, right now,_ and _not enough,_ and then Sam's long, elegant fingers slid inside, corkscrewed down into him. When Sam pulled back out, his fingers a little crooked, tugging on the ring of muscle, it sent hot pulses through Dean—had his blood bubbling and singing in his veins, his whole body like a pot on the boil, ready to spill over. Another slide in and out, Sam's teeth sinking into the roundest part of his rear, a suck and a lick, and that sealed the deal—Dean came, shuddering and shaking and calling Sam's name until the rafters shook. 

When he came back to the land of wakefulness, Sam was cursing, his voice full of awe, and shaking the iron bed-frame with how hard he worked himself. A slap of thick, slick, warmth landed on Dean's still throbbing rear, dribbled slowly down between his spit-wet cheeks. 

"Damn it, Dean…I…" 

Dean looked up at Sam's wonderstruck face. Sam shuddered and licked his lips. He said, voice gone breathy and faint, "Hell, man. You _came…_ just from that, I made you spend."

"Well, 'course…" Dean growled, "hell, yeah I did. It's been a damn long time, Hunter. Just me and my palm." He leveled a glare at Sam that wiped the awestruck wonder off his face and had him laughing instead, and that Dean preferred by far. 

"I do believe you were made for me," Sam finally said, gasping over a last chuckle. His smile slowly faded, and his eyes locked with Dean's, and there was that look again, the look Sam got before he packed up and rode out—but just for a moment, just for a moment and it was gone, and Sam was smiling again.

"Best believe I was, from head to toe, Sam Winchester." Dean rolled over, and curved himself around Sam. He held onto him like he never planned to let go, though he knew with the first buds greening up on the branches, Sam would be gone again.  
~0~


End file.
